


A Psalm For Solemn Waters

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: She was a stranger to their shores, pale and deathless.





	A Psalm For Solemn Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, this may not line up well, but considering the ephemeral nature of something like the Nightmare, why the hell not? These two have a lot in common.

She was a stranger to their shores, pale and deathless.

No, not deathless. Emma sensed loss and pain from this _Lady Maria_ the same way water rippled around a serpent hiding under the surface, waiting to strike. A sea of mourning, dark depths plunging hungry and abyssal. It was not the death of individuals but cosmic destruction, eldritch corruption, starting at the soul and weaving out through the blood.

Yet she had the same sense that Lady Maria could not die, not truly, and once they were properly introduced, Emma discovered she was right.

It was difficult at first, for they only shared a narrow field of language. She could read medical texts in Maria’s foreign script, but did not speak the tongue with any regularity. Maria knew none of hers at all, but had been lured here by a mysterious calling, that much was clear.

The hunter learned quickly, though; she possessed a mind like good steel, flexible but sharp. Her accent was heavy, an iron bell hanging between each word, but when Maria spoke of _Kos_ and _orphans_ and a thousand failed attempts at a cure, Emma heard _Dragonrot_ and _shinobi_ and an unending cycle of agonized resurrection.

They understood each other, in a way.

—

While she waited for the Wolf, she and Maria delved into research, and one study swiftly became another, until experimentation was unavoidable.

With honesty in mind, Emma had wanted a sample of Maria's blood the day they met. Yet such was not something to ask of an unfamiliar person, no matter how fascinating.

As her lancet slipped through skin, Maria watched without a word, like the sharp blade caused no pain at all. While life dripped red onto a specimen slide, Emma suspected the other woman was divorced from the notion entirely.

She didn't ask, not immediately. Yet the results spoke for themselves.

“Curious. Maria, you should see this.” Formality had been carved away over weeks in close quarters, leaving behind a tidy memorial to trust. They used each other's first names; at least, in private.

Leather creaked against old wood as the hunter approached, taking the shard of glass that was offered to sharpen her eye.

"There is salt in your blood. More than there should ever be." Emma gestured to the dark, thick stain; it was oddly textured, never quite dry. “It does not congeal, it...crystallizes. And although the blood is dead, I am not sure if what forms from the matter is."

Maria leaned in closer, brow tense. "I am but an echo of myself. A corpse by any other name."

"You sound like the shinobi," Emma said, keeping her tone light. "At least, when he speaks."

Silence fell between them, thick and thorned as a wartime barricade.

It was not until Maria set the glass down, slow and graceful, that an answer came. "That was not a comment made in jest."

She drew the waterfall of her cravat open, baring a mottled, ragged wound across the base of her throat. Emma couldn't help but stare; it was open, unhealed, yet not a single drop of blood slipped free.

 _You do not scare me_ is what Emma intended to say, defiant to the challenge presented. What came from her lips was entirely different.

"Do you know how beautiful you are, strange hunter?"

—

“You carry a sword,” Maria noted one morning, bare hands cupped around her tea. She wore her gloves less now, exposing the gray pallor that invaded her skin. “I didn’t notice the day we met. But it was there, was it not?"

The blade was always there. Isshin had made sure of that, made her swear an oath that could be uttered to no other.

"It was, although I had no reason to use it." Whether Maria could be considered 'human' in her state was a question for a philosopher, not a physician. She was not a demon so much as infected, a puppet held up by a malicious god's strings. "Such a weapon is not meant for you."

When a mortal body could not bear divinity, blessing was unmistakable from plague.

Maria smiled. What a rare gesture, incredibly so, and yet Emma had no means to preserve it. "I do not take it as a threat. We could cross blades and test our skill."

The invitation was friendly, a kindness suited to warriors, but Emma refused with a subtle shake of her head. After a flicker of hesitation, she eased the dismissal with a small smile of her own. "You have already offered me your blood once, Maria."

Shrewd amusement flared in the hunter's eyes. "And you prefer that method?"

Heat cut a trail up the back of Emma's neck, lingering there like an ember held above her skin. "It yielded incredible results."

“True,” Maria admitted, and reached to refill her cup.

Propriety bid Emma to intervene; she had been too distracted by the conversation to notice her guest lacked for tea.

Their fingers met across the belly of the kettle, pausing just shy of the handle. Maria’s touch was cool, a relief, and lasted all of a blink.

“Apologies,” the hunter whispered, but her eyes lingered on Emma’s.

She took the kettle in hand and refilled the cup, dark liquid and fractured leaves settling at the bottom. “No. The mistake was mine.”

There were so many mistakes they could make together. Countless ones.

—

Their first kiss was an accident.

An accident in the way that ripe fruit fell from the tree, drawn by gravity’s insistent, inexorable pull. The breaking was natural, inevitable.

Emma examined the slash at Maria’s throat, one hand cradling the other woman’s chin to keep it high. She drew a fingertip along the old wound, and the hunter closed her eyes.

“Did I hurt you?"

Maria hummed a denial. “Your hands are warm. That’s all.”

She was warm, and the hunter's neck was like ice, where a steady pulse should have beat. "The injury. Does it ever get worse?"

"No, but perhaps that it because it was fatal to begin with." Maria's eyes opened, half-lidded. "There's no use toying with corpses."

Emma shrugged. "A corpse does not smile and drink tea. A corpse does not speak truths about gods and men."

She felt Maria swallow, although it was likely the other woman had no need for breath. Ingrained habit, then. "Do you think there's anything I cannot do?"

A question lurked behind a question there, and Emma could not suss out the truth at its core. Instead, she tilted her head up, trying to align her gaze with Maria's.

 _Like what_ , she would have asked, except Maria had looked down at the same time. Their lips brushed, softness finding softness, and it was a mercy when they had been examining the cruelty of others since the day they met.

This was so much easier.

Emma encouraged the kiss, seeking the fullness of it, ripe and tender as a persimmon. When Maria pressed forward, she welcomed the movement, sliding an arm around the back of the hunter's neck to keep her close.

"Am I still cold?" Maria whispered against her lips.

"Yes," Emma confessed, "but I can bear it."

—

Maria disappeared every night, only to return by morning.

Emma hasn’t realized it at first. She always went to sleep at an early hour, and despite the complex dimensions of her desire, the two of them did not share a bed.

It wasn’t until the hunter appeared with a gaping wound in her chest, staining her entire shirt red, that a reason was given.

“This doesn’t last,” Maria gasped as Emma tried to stitch the jagged hole shut; she had been impaled, through and through. “You need not be concerned.”

“Because you cannot die?” Her fingers were stained deep crimson, slick as a lover’s. “Or because you wish to?”

The other woman’s hand clasped over hers; it was hot to the touch now, flush with exertion. “I go elsewhere when the sun falls. When you dream, I am in a nightmare.”

Emma weighed her first response and found it wanting. Never once had Maria lied to her, and it explained why at times the hunter spoke of her patients like she had seen them yesterday.

She formed a new question, molded the words out of equal parts hope and fear.

“Do you want to stay, or are you meant to be between worlds?”

Maria fell deep into reflection. The blood had slowed to a trickle, sticking with shards of salt; she smelled like a shark fresh from the kill. “I know what would anchor me here. What I do not know is what would happen to this place afterwards.”

“Something worse than everyone we meet rotting from within?” The Sculptor, who had taken to Maria’s presence with an utter lack of interest, wheezed night and day, strangled by his own lungs. “Something worse than beasts and gods driven to madness?”

“I am all of the above, I think,” Maria admitted quietly.

—

Emma wasn’t sure what to make of the device Maria handed her, although she knew keeping it safe was of utmost importance.

The runes along its metallic face began to shift if she looked at them too long. One night she saw eyes, dozens of them, straining against the surface.

When Emma blinked, they were gone again.

Something was looking for Maria, she realized, hunting her with effervescent hunger. Yet it could only see so far.

She consigned the dial to the bottom of a heavy chest, beneath decades of research, and stepped out of the house.

It rained, hard and insistent. Maria stood just under the edge of the roof, staring at the wealth of darkness past choking torchlight.

The night did not claim her, not anymore.

Emma stepped behind the hunter, pressing a soft hand against the small of her back.

“Come to bed,” she whispered, although it was an invitation and not an order.

“I heard wolves,” Maria murmured, “it reminded me of home.”

There was only one Wolf that Emma kept an eye on, and he was far from here on this night. She stroked a finger up Maria’s spine, and the other woman turned into the touch.

“You’ll be cold tonight.” Her glassy, nigh-dead gaze turned rueful. “Between me and the rain.”

She was always cold when Maria slept beside her, but it translated as comfort, the way a rag soaked in water could ease fever.

A smile crept to Emma’s lips. “I know. But there are ways to stay warm.”

They kissed and the storm quickened, wind and rainfall banishing the torches into wisps of smoke. Emma led Maria through the shadows and inside the house, saltwater lingering on the back of her tongue.

—  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> what's better than this, two women experimenting with eldritch corruption in the blood


End file.
